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TREES AND WAYSIDE FLOWERS 

By HELEN GILBERT COZINE 



\ 




HELEN GILBERT COZINE 



Trees and Wa37sicle Flowers 

TAj^' Helen Gilbert Cozine 

Author of 
"Campfires," Forest Leaves," ScetcKes of Friends," Etc. 



6' 



Copyright, 1920 

By 

Helen Gilbert Cozine 






N. HALFEN, 
1842 Irving Park Blvd., 

Chicago, 111. 
Price: $1.00 postpaid 



FEB '2 19?! 



CU610057 



J- 



EDITORS NOTE: 

In Trees and Waysdie Flowers the 
author not only brings us near to 
natures heart, but reaches the human 
heart also. Her verse has been com- 
pared to Wordsworth in its tender 
appeal. 



Lovingly Dedicated 

to My Daughter 

Bessie. 



To Helen Gilbert Cozine 

She stands there steadfast and serene, 

The seen and unseen breath around her from afar. 

She stands between this world and far off gHmmering realms, 

This woman whom the gods have loved and understood. 

Elizabeth Ballard Leighton. 

Liverpool, Eng. 



The reader who is looking for measured rhythmn or highly- 
wrought verse, may find no pleasure in this modest volume, 
with its primitive and unadorned conception of beauty in 
simple things, like wayside flowers; yet Nature makes no 
apology that the dandelion is not perfumed nor blooms as 
the rose. 



Perusal of tKese Lines. 

In perusal of these lines 

Should your predilections be more critical than kind, 

Remember, "close beside the unrivaled rose 

The modest daisy meekly blows." 

If most of us could but express the half that's in our hearts, 

Then beside the great we, too, might take our place. 

We then might wear, if not a laurel crown 

Or holly leaves with berries red, a wayside flower. 

Then if upon a harp of thousand strings 
We may not play, we may some chord vibrate, 
That is a part of that great harp 
Of God's eternal things. 



O, that I could freedom find 

From iron-bound fetters that so bind 

The soul in limitation, 

This soul that struggles to express 

All it find written in the breast, 

That hids the boundless and immortal mind 

Which in me dwells. 

When my spirit is set free, 

I'll be no more upon the earth, 

But have a new re-birth. 



Between tne Lines. 



Great thought may he Hke buried treasures in the sea, 
Until some friend with fine discrenment brings them to the 
the firmament. 

As Paul at the feet of great Gamaliel knowledge gained, 
So I do to one a debt of grateful homage pay, 

To one whose lofty mind and love of all things 
Great and fine, an inspiration gives. 

Not for any idle praise 
Would I formulate a phrase. 

To catch the faint perfume of Heaven's rose, 
Is rich reward to him that knows. 

There is no scroll that could unfold 
The colors of the soul. 

Sweeter far than any song 
Is the song that's never sung. 

The best expression ever given in painted word. 
Is only that which others think, which others feel, though all 
unheard. 



In Glen Viev? Woods. 

Beloved trees and summer skies, 

Birds and bees and butterflies, 

At the foot of the hill the soft running rill. 

In the glen are the thorn trees, 

Here the walnut, the oak ,and the elm trees; 

Wood flowers in both sun and shade. 

Soft green carpets all are laid. 

Velvet pillows of mosses made, 

Where reclining, I study God's miniature garden, 

Close, close to the earth, 

Where its plant life and people 

So tiny have birth. 

Here's one little fellow; his coat is so yellow, 

His head is so green 

He's balancing now on that blade of grass. 

Where he's bound to be seen. 

Some are in red, some are in black, and some are in brown. 

And those somber fellows who build the big mounds, 

Are pulling and dragging and hurrying around. 

To accomplish their tasks, and no questions asked 

As to why they must toil 

All day in the sun and work in the soil. 

While others parade in garments so fine 

And have a good time. 



The shadows now are growing long, 

The birds are singing their evening song, 

The lowing herds are slowly through the meadows winding, 

The shepherd dog is following close behind them, 

The sunken sun with day's race run, 

Now leaves a radiant afterglow 

O'er meadow, field and grove. 

Beneath the shade of these majestic trees, 

The far-off restless world can be no part of me. 

So close to Nature's heart am I, I sign to leave 

But I'll come back again, my best Beloved, my Trees. 



Qlie Unseen, 



O, Thou mighty One, we ask not 

That thy temple veil be drawn aside. 

Our mortal eyes are not in tune 

With thy celestial spheres; 

But if one fold of that great veil 

Vibrating with the heavenly perfumed breeze, 

Could but admit one pale and fleeting gleam. 

Enough would be revealed for hope in all. 

Our senses measure little of thy mighty plans. 

O, is there not some messenger with revelations 

From that unknown land? 

Why is the line of demarcation 

Drawn so straight and so severe, 

Between us and that world 

That holds our loved ones dear? 

Though I seek God in the forest, 

Field, or sky, afar or near, 

Or in this wondering, trembling heart of mine, 

I know the soul is more than all 

The marvels that it looks upon. 

That in the breast is borne, 

A mightier world than planets rare. 



O, Thou who walked the thorny path 

With bleeding feet alone, 

Who knoweth all the pain and all 

The sorrow we have known; 

Yet we cry out in the wilderness 

Of doubt and unbelief, 

Not remembering, Thou with crown of thorns 

And pierced hands, to us the way hast shown. 

We are sons and daughter of a king and know it not. 

No kingly power is ours because unsought; 

Yet the law of our dominion 

Which was and is God given, 

Unchanging as the sunset Rachel watched, 

While waiting there at Laban's well, 

Of death and life the mystery, 

O, who is there to tell? 

O, Thou mighty One, 

We thank Thee for the life Thou gavest; 

We thank Thee for the open door of death. 

The fiery darts that flash 

And burn, may light the way. 

Lift up thy soul in thankfulness 

That thou art of thy God a part. 

Lift up thy heart to pray. 



Vlemor9 Bells. 



Ring in to me to-night just thoughts of happy things. 

Ring out the discord, struggle, strife. 

Ring out, ring out, all, in my life, of sadness. 

Ring only joy and gladness. 

Just for to-night, Sweet Bells. 

Just for to-night let roseate hues 

A halo make around my head. 

Just let me dream and make that dream seem real, 

That I am happy once again. 

Ring in. Sweet Bells, ring in. 

Ring in calm faith in God. 

Ring bells of recompense, 

Ring in forgetfulness, of self. 

Ring bells of peace and love and hope. 

Ring in, Glad Bells ring in. 



En Rapport. 



Open thou thy heart wide. 
A patient angel waits 
A sheltering recompense, 
Whose soul is weary of life's race. 

Open thou thy heart wide, 

Lest she be lost to all 

The music of love's strains. 

And only empty words are beating in thy veins. 

Open thou thy heart wide. 
Nay, not in silence, but in word, 
Pour out the music of thy soul. 
And love her for love's sake. 



Autumn in tke Forest. 



Summer departing leaves behind an after-glow 

Of radiant beauty, and glorious coloring of quite another kind. 

All this harmonious color blending, 

Speak not of beauty ending in frosts and snows. 

The trees with brown and red and gold are hung, 

Bright emblems of the sun. 

To-day my flowering forest has a story new to tell 
The first sharp frost has swept the dells. 
And nothing now remains of all the flowers, 
Excepting here and there in some protected bower, 
The purple asters turn their faces toward the sun. 

Dear Dandelion, the first in Spring to spread 

Your vine and lift your golden head. 

And now the last to leave, 

Your little bright face shining through the brittle grass, 

Your courage still not fled. 

I think from under the low hung moon, 
Som faires have come with color and brush, 
And in the night when everything's hushed, 
This aerial band has spilled and splashed 
Their colors with lavish hand. 

I see through the shadows the thorn trees all swaying. 
Their apples of yellow and red on the brown leaves are falling. 
No feathered warblers their mates now are calling 
To this feast that is waiting; 
But some squirrels are debating 
If the apples are worth eating. 



To-night I miss the little players on their violins, 

Yet that sturdy crickett who must be of their kin, 

Still trills his challenge through the frosty air 

As if he's not aware the season's past. 

The Katydids their controversies ended, 

And we hope with each other not offended, 

As they call their daring contradictions to the last. 

As the twilight deepens the wind is beginning to play on his lyre. 

At first in restful cadence soft and low, 

These wind-harp strains, they come and go, 

With feathery velvet breath; 

And then with swelling sounds ascending, 

Vibrating the grand old columns 

Of Nature's great temple, God's house. 

While standing on the rustic bridge, 

I watch the wind-swept pool 

Reflect the fair inconstant moon. 

That stately orb intoxicated with the beauties of the night, 

Seems whirling, glistening, gleaming 

In her own reflected light. 

And so the day dies into night 

As night reveals the day. 

Winter with its frost and snow is near, 

But Spring can not be far away. 



ni\e Butterfly). 



Who put the powder on thy wing, 

Thou pretty thing? 

Come hither, come, 

The dewdrop's waiting on the flower for thee. 

Come hither, come and let me see 

The wondrous art and splendor of thy wing. 

Thou pretty one, with iridescent wing, 
If I in my rebirth shall be 
Transformed in beauty all like thee, 
No matter in what spheres I shine. 
Some vanity would sure be mine. 

Come hither, come, dear buttterfly, 

Dost think the flowers' unfolding one by one, 

In this glorious morning sun, 

On thee doth wait? 

No chysalis could be thy home; 

But Smintheus' rays could thee create, 

Thou fairy one, sweet butterfly. 



R 



OSes. 



With my lips softly pressed to these roses so sweet, 
I am standing again by your low mossy bed. 
Do you hear me, O, best beloved one? 
All joy and all gladness from my life have flown, 
My darling, my own. 

Do you remember, my sweet, the roses you loved? 
The same that I gave you to keep 
When I was away, I now bring them each day. 
You said you a message could breathe from their perfume, 
Of my life's devotion, my own. 

O, glorious sunset, thou mother of roses. 
Linger to-night by my darling's green bed. 
The trees softly swaying, the wind harps are playing. 
The tall lillies bending their heads, a vigil are keeping. 
Sleep sweetly, my sweet, my own. 



Wayside Flowers. 



Among the wayside flowers in Spring 

The dandelion first lifts its head, 

And spreads a fine embroidered vine along the way, 

That all the rest may do their best, 

And lift their heads toward the sun, 

Their velvet leaves upon a stem. 

That small wood-violet modest flower, 
Puts on so bold a front, 
Pushes its way, you would never believe, 
Up through the old leaves under the trees, 
And takes its place ith exquisite grace. 

The buttercup which the sun has given 

Such an extra touch, 

Then it gets up 

And tries to hold the dew in its cup 

Till the fairies come through to take a sup. 

On the hillside in the glenn. 

The meek-eyed daisies lift their heads. 

Wondering why those nice Spring showers 

Make those grasses act so fresh. 

And grow so tall just like a wall. 

To hide them in their bower. 

The red lillies blushing, bend over the stream. 

Surprised at their beauty, so it would seem, 

Yet remembering the compliment which to them had 

been paid, 
That Solomon never could be so arrayed, 
They marveled no more. 



A Daily Prayer, 

For tKe Daughter of Eve. 

Pray for a mind that's big and broad and fine. 

Say a prayer for freedom against littleness 

And a mean kind of bitterness. 

Ask for deliverance from envy, strife, and jealousy. 

May we be fair and just, and in each other trust. 

Let us annihilate, dispatch all evil and deceit, 

And take gracefully defeat. 

May we not be inflated with all of our own greatness. 
O, keep us from intolerance and offensive conceit. 
May we know that all of wisdom will not with us disappear; 
That we're not called on for judgment 
Of others while we're here. 

May we remeber that we our own creators are; 

There is no weary waiting for good that cometh from afar; 

The hamony Vv^e seek lies all around us here; 

It's the good that's given away; it is God that's always near. 

May our hearts be filled to overflowing 

With love, charity, tenderness, and devotion, 

That we may be a blessing to those who with us dwell; 

And songs to us will ever be sung. 

And we shall have eternal youth, because the heart is young. 



One Resurrection. 



Awake, awake, the rosy dawn now ushers in the morning 
Bright and clear, 

Brings glad tidings to my widow. 
Brings a message of good cheer; 
God's glorious resurrection now is near. 

That sweet warbler of the Spring now flits from limb to limb, 

In the dear old trees so bare and brown. 

That dear bird of good report ,with his sweet, 

Clear, thrilling note. 

He is here close to my window as I write. 

The golden sun upon the sea, upon the earth and sky, 
Upon the hillside meadow brook. 

Tells the story of God's love, more wonderful, more true, 
Than ever could be told in books. 

Away down in the ground, the little seeds 

Are turning, in their beds of warm moist earth, 

To find their way up toward the new re-birth. 

And help God spread his soft, green, velvet carpet down. 

Awake ,awake the perfct days of June are near. 
All inertness, languor, dullness, disappears. 
Intense kindling life takes hold of every clod. 
The proof is given of immortality, of God, 
The resurrection here. 



Sj)! 



Via, 



To-night I see again, as I shall see always, 

Thy soft sweet eyes like stars 

With penetrating, searching gaze, 

Still burning into mine, 

As if they would divine 

That question still unanswered 

In thy heart and mine. 

I sought by every tender token 

To weld thy soul to mine, 

And yet no word was spoken. 

I sought to hold thee, Sylvia, dear, 

With every tie within my life unbroken, 

To hold thy faith unshaken, 

To hold thee sacrificing all for me. 

To-night I see again, as I shall see always, 

That prayer unspoken on thy lips. 

In flattering dreams I deemed thee mine, 

Thou whose love was so sincere, so sweet, 

Whose heart was free from guile. 

Who spurned deceit. 

No other love could come to thee. 

Thy soul was drained to dregs for me; 

And yet I know a better fate 

Should have been thine, sweet Sylvia mine. 

In all those happy years, 

No sad reproach, no sighs, no tears 

To dim the luster of those sweet brown eyes. 



As a drowning man unto a straw doth cling, 

I would delude myself in thinking 

Those years some happiness did bring to thee, 

And yet I know full well 

The bitter tears that thou didst shed, 

Before that awful word, good-bye. 

That trembled faint upon thy lips. 

I see to-night, as I shall see always. 

Thy white robe trailing on the grass, 

As down the mountain side, so like a spirit thou didst pass. 

O, dismal wind, thy melancholy song, 

It seems a herald of a thousand thoughts, 

All of which with pain are fraught. 

That strange mysterious, ever-faithful nurse. 

Thy father brought from far-off lands to care for thee, 

Who always hovering near, 

Was waiting on the sand where boats are anchored. 

Bound for unknown lands. 

Hadst thou then planned to flee. 

And let the yawning sea divide us, thee and me, 

Because my soul was not awakened all for thee? 

And now I know as I shall always know. 

How dear thou art to me. 



O, where art thou that should, be here? 

My spirit cries to thee. 

Dost thou lean to-night on some casement stone, 

When the day's dull noise is done, 

And dream of me, my loved, my own. 

And know I would atone? 

Sweet Sylvia mine, thy presence made 
All things of earth seem radiant with romance. 
The wind's soft sighs seemed musical as love, 
While thoughts, which half immortal, 
Winged their flight above. 

Let man beware if in his keeping 

Hath been given a jewel rare, a woman's heart. 

So let him give to her his best protecting care. 

A gift from Heaven is his. 

He entertains an angel unaware. 



"There's ^sJever a Leaf or a Blade too Mean 
to be Some Happ]? Creator's Palace." 

To the Little People in the Grass and Trees. 

One evening late in August I my way did wend, 
A concert to attend in Budlong Woods. 
The players all were there; their violins in tune; 
The program just begun. 

Down among the mosses underneath the leaves, 
Or high up in the trees they played in perfect time. 
The only interruption in this unique production, 
Was a slight altercation in perfectly good English 
From the balconies above. 

There seemed to be no secret in the name of this fair lady, 

For high abavc their vio-ins you could hear, 

*'Katy did. Katy didn't. She did. she did, she did. Katy did." 

No ceasing to the argument of those little determined daughters 

To always have the last word 

And never break the record. 

O, you wondrous little people, you tiny people in the grass 

and trees I 
Your hearts so filled to overflowing, expression finds in time 

and tune, 
While I with faltering pen and insufficient word 
Am vainly trying to express what I have heard. 

So, if the moon is shining, or if the stars are twinkling, 
Or if in mist or fog, get your seat upon a log, 
You never will regret it. You never can forget it. 
Go and hear the concert out in Budlong Woods. 



Ode of tKe Northwest Wind. 

O, Northwest Wind, thy angry sighs, 
Thy moaning, groaning, sad lament. 
Like souls in fear and dread or discontent, 
Thy solemn dirge doth pirce my heart. 

Thy fierce cold blast hath shorn the earth of all its glory. 

No smiling sunligt can awake the dreaming flowers. 

No birds with swelling song 

To tell of life and love the whole day long. 

The leafless trees are quivering. 

Trembling in thy sullen breeze. 

Thou drivest the poor brown leaves now here, now there; 

They try in vain to hide in their despair. 

O, Thou Tempestuous Wind, Thou daring unseen force. 
Which in the lengthened days such comfort hath its source; 
But now no radiant sunlight can thy fury quell; 
Only discomfort swells and swells. 

Blow, blow, Thou Temperamental Blast! 

Thy fury soon will pass. Thy milder sister will appear. 

With velvet breath blown on the lifeless bier, a resurrection 

bring; 
And then a glad new birth, new life will re-appear. 



Lines of Consolation for Mr. Toad. 

Where beauty wins the prize Mr. Toad 

I think you would be wise 

To sit there in the shade 

Away from prying eyes 

Where the colors of your coat look so dark 

I can't tell you from an old piece of bark. 

If those happy warblers there, Mr. Toad, 

Were shorn of their feathers all so fine 

And had to take their place in life 

With their clothes not one bit nice 

Whey'd be just like you and I, never able to fly, 

For they did not look so well, when they came from the shell. 

Those same warblers over there so vain of all their gifts 

So fond of life of travel and of song 

But if they had no wings 

And if they could not sing 

They would dig their feast in silence 

And no longer scorn the ground Mr. Toad. 



In every place in life there is strife 

With all the showers of gifts that the gods can outpour. 

We never can be satsfied 

We are still demanding more 

So its best not to mind if old dame Nature's not been kind 

But just be glad and know its fine to be a toad. 

Why sit there so reflective Mr. Toad 

You have no struggle for existence 

You have only to try for a knat or a fly 

Your dinner always waiting there close by 

I wish that you might dine on many of their kind 

Go after them with a will, you have your place to fill. 

Dear old friend Mr. Toad if ambition is still in you sleeping 

Your presence is in keeping with the season that we love 

Let me see you skip and jump to your castle the hollow stump 

I know you are just right 

For you're a part of the good old summer night, 

Mr. Toad, just like me. 



M>M. 






TKougKs in tKe Great Forest. 

He, who of Nature's life would truly be a part, 

Must know the woods. 

If vainly seeking truth and peace and rest, 

Come where God'S world is at its best, 

All over-run with moss and flowers and vines entwined 

Come where there's freedom unconfined; 

Come live beneath the sheltering trees. 

Live near to Nature's heart. 

Come wander in these sylvan dells, 

This garden of the gods, 

And listen to the oriole. 

The wood dove's plaintive note, 

The bluejay's call, the black-bird's cry, 

The thrush with golden throat. 



Then shout and sing. O. happy birds, 

You can not tell of all things this glad day brings. 

Not even Pan, great genius of the woods, 

Can help me half express the beauties here revealed, 

For I on him have called. 

0, wind from the fragrant south, 

This forest needs noborrowed perfumes sweet 

From jasmine and from rose. 

So, play, play on thy lyre, 

Play soft and low with elfin bow 

High up in the tall tree tops. 

Lost in twilight dreams in dark green woods, 

The sunset fires burn low, 

Touching with light and shade. 

Now all aglow with soft alluring colors, 

Colors which have no name, 

Whose gold and silver gleams 

Outrival the great rainbow. 

This perfect day, this forest deep and still, 

Will painted stay upon the recollections of my soul, 

Like Raphael's angels, 

All through the green fields of God's eternal day. 

In this great pantheon, this temple place. 

My breath, my in spiration, the beating of my heart, 

Are all in tune with thee. 

My best beloved, my trees. 



Taedium Vitae. 



Has ever one impassioned heart 

Realized its dreams,. 

Or found the things most cherished 

To be just what they seemed? 

With pictured hours 

All filled with hope supreme, 

Where love could not depart 

And only leave an aching heart? 

He who depends upon another 
In great need. 

But leans upon a broken reed. 
Words can not satisfy the heart. 
Words when summoned to the test 
Leave still a want within the breast. 
What spell could weld affections fast 
Or keep the bloom untill the last. 

For he who builds his happiness 
On hope's delicious song, 
Our builds around another 
Content for future years, 
But builds upon the sand; 
For disappointment only sleeps; 
For it is God that keeps, 
That holds us in the hollow 
Of his hand. 



TKe Abyss of Yearning. 

A Story in Verse. 

The old oak floors were burnished bright, 

With here and there a soft rug 

Laid with matchless care 

To hide the places worn and bare, 

Left by the tread of many feet 

Now long since freed from care. 

The imprint left, like faithless snows, 

Each step betrays where they have been, 

The imprint left by youth and age 

And little pattering feet. 

0, old oak floor, if you could speak! 

The great carved table a story could relate of days long past, 
With claws that told each mammoth crystal ball for feet, 
Its polished surface due to Samuel's fist so black and strong, 
Its mirrored top now giving back his kindly face 
While putting all his mistress' things where they belong. 

He gathered up her well loved books 

From window-seat and floor and chair, 

Put each one in its place with loving care. 

He turns the sleepy log within its ashen bed. 

Its flames that now light up the wall. 

Reveal a few choice pictures, great and small, 

A life-sized lion's head above the grate. 

And on the mantel shelf one photograph in frame of bronze, 

One beauteous vase of Cloisonne, 



Behind the divan on the north, • 

That covered all the space upon the wall, 

A rugged scene of mountain stream and water-fall. 

Beside the great broad window on the south, some roses hung, 

Hark, hark, the lark, with Shelley's poem to that wondrous 

bird. 
The sweetest poem ever sung, in panel frame, 
A piano small and grand. 
Some fresh roses on a stand 
Now filled the room with their perfume. 

And now the old oak door reveals old Mammy's head, 

With turban starched and red. 

Her bright and shining face, 

A good old sample of her race. 

In spite of neatness and dispatch to close the latch, 

The savory odors followed through, 

Of all the good things Mammy knew 

So well to bake and brew. 

"Say, Sam'l what's you bin about? 

"Say, whar's dat can'l? It's seben o'clock. 

"If in de window dat can'l ain't be lit, 

"You know dat Missus, she done hab a fit." 

And Mammy peering through the shadow 

Toward the pathless wood. 

In loving watch for her 

So well beloved, so little understood. 

"Say, Sam'l, what do Missus find out dar dis time ob year, 

To keep her out dar when so dark and drear? 

"I axed her, Sam'l. She sed, 'Dear, good ole Ma'm,' 

"I' se bin watchin' de great god, Pan, 

"An' his spectacl'r ban'. 

"Dat when de sun am low, he gives mos' wonde'ful show'." 

With anxious glances toward the deep, dark wood. 

She passes through the door to her domain 

Where everything is kept with care and pains. 



The candle in the window-seat 

Was flickering with the breath of night 

That found its way around the window frame 

so strong and tight. 
Old Samuel musing by the grate, 
Wondering why his mistress is so late, 
Then he remembers the time, the date, 
And knows she will her vigil keep 
Long after all the village is asleep. 

He watches now the far-off twinkling lights. 

No sound to breaks the stillness heard. 

Except the call of some night bird, 

With here and there a murmuring pine, 

Or sighing wind in yonder grove, 

The tall bare trees, their arms uplifted toward the sky, 

A few brown leaves still clinging 

As if afraid to loose their hold. 

And fall upon the earth so damp and cold, ^ 

Or else be driven far away 

And finally buried under frost and snow. 

Now coming swiftly through the trees, 

Her short skirt, leggings to the knees, 

All made of brown. 

Her cap of wool is well pulled down 

To keep the wind and first light snow away 

That now is falling fast upon the grass, 

There is nothing to suggest in this healthy woman's mien, 

A state of sad unrest, or mind to dwell on tragic scene. 



From out the wood she turned into the country road 

And strode along, 

A part of all the wind and snow, 

A part of all the sun-light, 

A part of all the night, 

A part of all God's plans, 

"A spirit yet a woman too." 

She turned in at the creaking gate 

And up the old brick walk, 

She sees the candle's flickering light; 

Hears Samuel turn the lock. 

His black face now is wreathed in smiles, 

His mistress' winning grace. 

Old Mammy's face within the door, 

A picture makes within the hall. 

Old Mammy's age and her rheumatic joints, 

Though not a supple maid, was capable at all points, 

Now turned to follow her good mistress up the stairs. 

*'Now I'll not need you more to-night, good Mammy, dear." 

But, Missus, eb'ry ting is pipin' hot, 

"Yo' dinna yo' has done forgot." 

Her mistress turned, with love's protecting care replied: 

"Now you and Samuel are dismssed until tomorrow. 

"May the sun rise bright and clear, 

"And bring us all good cheer. 

"Please God, good-night until to-morrow." 



up stairs she found her dress so soft and white, 

Laid out upon the great four-posted bed. 

Now quckly dressing as if expecting 

Soon to hear some step upon the walk, 

She turned with longing glance toward the old south road, 

The woman now stands revealed, 

Her soft white draperies falling to the floor. 

But half concealed a form of faultless mold, 

Her soft sweet eyes of purplish blue. 

Her hair, the color of the ripened grain,, 

From a broad low brow was brushed away 

In careless and becoming disarray. 

She now descended into that living room 

Which of herself, it was so much a part, 

That those who knew her oft remarked. 

Ah, this is Helen's room, 

"So full of peace, and hope, and restful atmosphere." 

How often unexpressed even to those that we love best, 

Is any part of what we think or feel. 

Could some loved friend with keen discernment. 

Feel those things we know not how we may disclose, 

The burden would be lightened, if not lifted. 

And we might find repose. 

Now in the great arm-chair before the old south window-seat, 

Her watchful waiting she began. 

A waiting that for months and years dragged on. 

It was as if it had but just begun, 

To her, — ■ — to her that knew no time. 

That "love's not love that alters when it alteration finds." 



The flame that in the candle glows and burns, 

Is far, alas, too much akin 

To thoughts that burn and burn within. 

The heart that glows with too much gladness, 

Also will with sadness overflow. 

The soul with depth of feeling which lies "too deep for tears," 

And finds no outlet in all the weary years. 

So digs its grave. Its sepulchre is made. 

To that soul with need supreme, 

Ever aching with a dream, 

That her cry is heard; 

Could she feel just once again 

Twining arms about her thrown, 

Warm caresses all her own. 

"O, joy, thou tarriest long! 

O, God, no longer can I keep 

"My soul from fainting, keep my soul from sleep." 

The hesitating, cold, grey dawn 

Now creeping in the room, 

Reveals two colored servants 

Kneeling close beside the chair 

Of their loved misttress. 

There cries and groans now fill the room. 

The candle now burned down within its socket bed. 

The log no slumbering flame 

The moaning wind could now provoke. 

The light of earth life passed 

Beyond the veil that just divides, 

That only hides a little while all those we love, 

Had left its waxen image in the chair. 



H243 78 522 





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